


A Precious Curse

by Darksidekelz



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Animated (2007)
Genre: Forced Breeding, M/M, Mechpreg, Sticky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-10 23:36:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4412318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darksidekelz/pseuds/Darksidekelz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Trypticon Prison, Blurr awaits his impending execution.  His crime - abetting the Decepticon spy, Shockwave.  However, debate has stirred amongst the Autobot scientific community.  Surely, there must be some way to punish him for his crimes, while still preserving his unique abilities?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Wicked Plan

**Author's Note:**

> First chapter's pretty tame, but it's only gonna get more gross from here.

"Why have you brought me out here?  I'm a very busy mech, Perceptor," Sentinel Magnus said with a growl.  He wasn't wrong.  He'd never expected the role of acting Magnus to be full of such tedium - mechs and femmes piling their trivial worries upon him cycle after cycle - just who did they think he was?  He was above the needs of the common mech, he should have been commanding their armies against the forces of the Decepticons, apprehending traitors, executing spies, not trapped in his office beneath a mountain of paperwork, and certainly not walking through the grimy halls of Trypticon Prison with the head of the Science Guild by his side.

Perceptor did not flinch beneath the terse tone, but that was no great surprise.  He never reacted to anything in an emotional manner.  Instead, he took out a data pad, and began sifting through it, as though searching for something.  "This is what they have designated as death row - mechs waiting for their impending execution."

"Yes, I know what death row is."

Again, Perceptor ignored Sentinel's displeasure in favor of a more expository approach.  "Notorious Decepticon prisoners, along with the most destructive of our own Autobots - murderers and traitors, reside here."

"Yes, Perceptor," Sentinel groaned.  "I was there for the last execution.  I snuffed out the spark of the Decepticon lieutenant Shockwave myself."  It was a memory he relished.  The brute who had infiltrated their own intelligence division, who had personally disposed of the late Ultra Magnus - it was only fitting that Sentinel be the one to put a spear through his spark.  It was his first real kill, and he'd deny to anyone who asked that it had affected him in any way.  But the way the light flickered out of that great red eye, the way that all of the tension drained from that great body - how he fell limply around the spear that impaled him - it had awoken something new within the new Magnus, something brutal.  It was something he quite liked.

"Yes Sir.  This is well documented.  But one of the prisoners in the next wave of executions has caused some debate amongst high command."  They came to a stop in front of a cell, and Sentinel turned to look. 

The cell was tiny; most cells in Trypticon were, though unlike most of the titanic Decepticons imprisoned behind these walls, _this_ prisoner was at least afforded some range of movement.  He'd taken the opportunity to crouch down in the corner of the cell, lanky knees pulled to his chest, a blank look in muted blue optics.

"Agent Blurr?"  Sentinel said with a tilt of his head.  From within the cell, Blurr gave no indication that he'd heard his own name.

"Yes," Perceptor confirmed.  "He was discovered to be in league with Shockwave, and is scheduled to be executed for high treason."

"Then what is the issue?  He's a traitor, and traitor's get axed - no exceptions!"

Again, Perceptor paid no heed to the ire of the Magnus, nearly twice his size, looming over him with a fury in his optics.  "Agent Blurr is in possession of a glitched spark that grants him an unprecedented speed.  While there is no denying that he's a traitor in the highest degree, some of us believe that it would be detrimental to waste such a useful ability."

"So what?  Reformat him?  Is that even possible?"

Perceptor shot him an unreadable glance.  "It may well be, but there would doubtless be a public outcry about the moral implications of such a thing."

"We can suppress the public."

"Yes," Perceptor agreed, optics still locked on Sentinel Magnus, as if he were a lab experiment to dissect.  Sentinel didn't like it, but before he could say anything, the scientist's attention was already back on his data pad.  "But I feel there may be an easier way."

"What's that?"  Try as he might, Sentinel couldn't imagine any other way to retain the useful abilities while eradicating the rebellious streak.

"When we created the flying Autobots, Jetfire and Jetstorm, we managed to infuse two living mechs by harvesting code from an imprisoned Decepticon."

Sentinel still didn't get it.  His optics narrowed as he mulled it over.  "So we're going to put Blurr's code into another volunteer?"  But Perceptor was already shaking his head.

"If it were his coding that was the issue here, then it would be much easier to reproduce, but it is his spark that is the key.  A different, albeit similar approach will be required."

Sentinel was getting tired of the scientist's dodgy answers already.  He crossed his arms with a huff.  "Are you going to get to the point any time soon, or are you going to make me keep on playing this guessing game?" 

"Sir, are you aware of the way in which organics procreate?"  Sentinel actually shuddered at the question.  Thinking about the grimy, squishy little bags of flesh and disease was bad enough.  He had no desire to ponder over their methods of adding more of their nasty brethren to the universe.

Taking Sentinel's look of disgust as an answer, Perceptor continued.  "Of the samples I have had the chance to study, the vast majority are able to reproduce by combining the genetic material of two separate donors into a blueprint for an entirely new being, which carries on the traits of its progenitors."

"That's impossible.  You can't just make new life out of thin air!  That's what the All Spark is for!" Sentinel protested, gesticulating wildly.  Even the prisoner looked up at the motion, though he quickly lost interest, and returned his dead-eyed attention to the wall of his cell.

"And yet they do.  One popular way has the organic 'parents,' if you will, make use of what would be considered interfacing protocols within a Cybertronian, in order to pass on this data.  One parent implants its code within the other, who -"

"Stop it!" Sentinel howled, slamming his fist against the wall of the cell.  The prisoner did not look up this time.  "I don't want to hear about the mating habits of these disgusting things!  Just get to your point!"

Perceptor fixed another of his unreadable looks on Sentinel, though he felt this one carried with it a feeling of reproach.  The nerve of him! 

"I have worked to develop a program that allows for a similar process to take place within our own biologies."

Sentinel shuttered his optics in dumb bewilderment.  "You what?"

"It's still in the testing stage, but I believe I have come upon a way to pass down the unique traits instilled within one's spark on to future generations."

"And you're going to tell me about this, whether I like it or not."  Sentinel was at last catching on to Perceptor's game.

"When a mech overloads, that charge is dispersed into the air around it, essentially going to waste.  What my program does, is to instead contain the energy released within some sort of internal receptacle, a reappropriated overflow chamber, for instance, and _transform_ it.  The captured energy, which bears the unique sparkprint of its originator, will then merge, forming a brand new spark, which we can harvest and implant within a blank protoform."

Sentinel's optics widened, in disgust, in curiosity, in awe.  If Perceptor's program worked as he'd described, then it could change the face of life on Cybertron forever.  In his spark, he knew it to be a terrible thing, a Pandora's Box, that could result in the end of their society.  On the other hand, Cybertronian population had always been somewhat limited by the unpredictable whim of the Allspark.  Were they to take that power into their own hands - why - they could create a planetary force great enough not only to annihilate the remaining Decepticons, but to take their fight to other planets as well, to expand the great Cybertronian Empire.  Sentinel's circuits were already buzzing with the thought of being known as the 'Great Conqueror.'

"So you want to test this program on Blurr?"

"I do," Perceptor confirmed.  "But I will need another test subject, to act as the sire, to his carrier."

Sentinel stared through the bars of the cell, taking in the sight of the prisoner, still curled up on the floor.  Blurr was a beautiful mech, that much could not be argued.  He was lithe and sleek, with sharp angles and gentle curves conglomerating into a visual delight that any mech would have loved to have taken to the berth, were it not for that annoying glitch of his.  It was such a shame that he had chosen to ally himself with Shockwave.  Pit, he'd chosen that thing as his _mate,_ if the reports were to be believed.  How disgusting was that?  And moreover, what could that faceless, misshapen _monster_ have given him, that a nice, homespun Autobot could not have, let alone an adonis like Sentinel?  Alas, such a beautiful face had begot an ill personality.

A thought struck Sentinel.  Who was more loyal and desirable an Autobot than himself?  He imagined a new protoform, with the skill and beauty of Blurr, but with his own strength and personality.  The idea took hold with a vengeance - his name would go down in history as one of the key figures in initiating Cybertron's new golden age, and he'd get to fuck Blurr to boot.  There was no flaw to be found!

"Well, Perceptor, what good is a leader who doesn't go first?"


	2. Ashamed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blurr finds that pretending isn't enough.

From the moment he was dumped, limbs bound in stasis cuffs, in Sentinel Magnus's office, Blurr knew that his life was over.  Pit, it had been over long before now, though it was hard to pinpoint exactly when.  Had it been the moment he'd been dragged kicking and screaming by uncaring Autotroopers away from the still-smoking, stasis-locked body of Shockwave, while the Elite Guard closed in?  Or perhaps it had been the moment when he'd learned his lover's secret, and with full-knowledge of what he was doing, allowed himself to be wrapped up in a movement he had no desire to be a part of.  Or maybe it went even further back, to the moment his spark first pulsed with desire for the bot he thought to be Longarm Prime?

His existence had been one long and winding trail of unwise choices, and it had all culminated in this moment,  lying prone on the floor of a blue-lit chamber in Fortress Maximus, at the feet of the bot that had come to represent all he hated about the Autobots, while three Autotroopers, two Elite Guardsmechs, Perceptor, and Wheeljack looked on with clinical stares of indifference.  Worse even than the impending threat of whatever Sentinel had planned, or the lack of care from his former colleagues, however, was the sensation that whatever punishment was coming his way, he most undoubtedly deserved it.

First, he'd betrayed his people.  It wasn't by any direct action - he never pulled a trigger on his own brethren, never cut the still-beating spark out of a fallen Autobot (which was more than he could have said for some of his former allies).  No.  His betrayal was far less sinister, but equally damning - a betrayal of omission.  He'd found out Longarm Prime's dark secret, and knowing full-well how dangerous Shockwave was, had refused to report it.  He'd been blinded by love, swayed by the silver-tongued logic of his would-be enemy, and moreover, alienated by the atrocities committed by those he was sworn to serve, which only increased in barbarism as Sentinel Magnus came into power.

And then, by his own blunder, he'd lost his lover as well.  Blurr had meant well, but between an overwhelming sense of guilt, and a reluctance to stand against Shockwave and his own schemes, his famed skills in subterfuge had been all but neutralized.  It was Cliffjumper, Longarm's unassuming secretary that had found him out in the end, and Shockwave had risked everything to rectify Blurr's mistakes, in a perhaps misguided effort to save him.  In the end, they both had paid the price - Shockwave with his life, and Blurr with his freedom. 

Not a moment went by where Blurr didn't wish he'd suffered the same fate as his lover.  If only they'd had the opportunity to spark bond before they were found out.  How he longed to feel the flicker and burn of his own spark as it failed - extinguished along with the existence of half of its matter, half of the energy that kept it pulsing on.  He imagined it felt quite like what he was experiencing now, only without the sweet promise of death at the end of it all.

He was disgusted - with Shockwave, for luring him to that damning enlightenment, with the Autobots, who had driven him into the arms of a Decepticon agent in the first place, and most of all, with himself.  He was a failure in every sense of the word, and had no right to a continued existence.  In fact, he didn't understand why he had yet to be executed.  The conversation that had occurred between Sentinel Magnus and Perceptor outside of his cell the previous day likely held an explanation, but his mind was muddled, through starvation and isolation and his own looming madness; he hadn't thought to pay attention, and likely wouldn't have understood even if he had.  All he knew was that whatever punishment they deigned to give him, he most certainly deserved it.

"Hold still," the Magnus said, dragging him back to the moment.  It would have been impossible to disobey, even if he'd wanted to, shackled as he was.  Strong hands twisted his body just so, until the soft protoform of his torso was laid bare before Sentinel.  He pulled from his subspace something that Blurr had trouble recognizing.  The object was golden, and resembled a fist-sized key, though the tips consisted of several thin prongs, which were presumably supposed to be inserted into some kind of socket. 

He had not been expecting the socket to be his side.

Blurr whimpered feebly as an acidic burning sensation spread forth from the key; he could _feel_ his code being rewritten as it traveled through his circuits, and despite his earlier craving for death, Blurr found himself terrified.  _I deserve this, I deserve this!_   He repeated in his head like a mantra.  Let them do as they would, Blurr had earned it! 

He offlined his optics.  Without the luxury of vision, he could pretend that Shockwave was there in the room with him - that Shockwave was the one holding him down.   Shockwave, Decepticon though he was, was safe, and though he may have enjoyed inflicting pain, Blurr could trust that his lover would never _hurt_ him.  How nice it was to see him safe and alive again, to feel his cool, calculating touch against his own flushed metal - to hear his deep, husky voice.

_You've been so good, Blurr._

His optics popped back online at that cherished sound.  But his audials had clearly glitched, for it wasn't his own Shockwave, but Sentinel Magnus that leaned over him now,  a predatory grin on his chin-heavy face.

"Let's get these cuffs off of you."  Again, Blurr was twisted about like a toy, as Sentinel moved him to get a better angle, until at last Blurr could hear the hiss of a releasing mechanism.  Experimentally, he shifted his arm.  He had freedom of movement.  It was rather foolish of the Magnus.  If he'd so wanted to, he could have fled from the room right there, wound up back on the streets of Cybertron, a war prisoner on the run.  He didn't want to.  There was nothing for him out there.

"Sir, I must protest," came the mechanical voice of Perceptor.  "The subject's speed is only limited by his environment.  It will be easy for him to escape."

"I know that," Sentinel snorted defensively, clearly displeased by Perceptor's condescending lack-of-tone.  The Magnus seemed to take those words as a dare, and he reached out with hands larger than the entirety of Blurr's head, grabbed one of the prominent wheels on Blurr's legs, and twisted.  Metal shrieked in protest, and Blurr tried his hardest not to scream, as his left leg was pulled from its joint, left hanging limply at a distorted angle.  "And now he can't."

The pain was unreal, consuming his already weakened processor, until Blurr was left in a fit of panic. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm-sorry-I'm-sorry-I'm-sorry!" he cried out, again and again and again, words coming out at increasingly fast speeds.  Without meaning to, he kicked out with his good leg, missing Sentinel Magnus by inches.

The Magnus's face grew dark, and he rose to his feet, stamping on the flailing leg with all of his weight.  Blurr yelped, surprised into silence.

"You're _sorry_?!  You turned your back on the cause, willingly aided a mech who's been responsible for the deaths of _thousands_ of your own kind, and you have the _gall_ to say 'I'm sorry!'"  He dug into the leg with his heel, until the metal buckled beneath him.  Blurr barely reacted this time.  Feelings of fear and dread, combined with the overwhelming pain biting at his ruined leg had pushed his body into overdrive.  The pain receptors in his legs shut down, just as he heard the sickening crunch of metal.  A shiver ran through his frame - the only indication that he'd experienced anything.

Sentinel seemed not to care whether Blurr was screaming in pain or silent as the dead.  With no warning, he was bearing down on the smaller mech, slamming his hands to the floor on either side of Blurr's helm.  A thick knee spread his thighs apart, and quite suddenly, Blurr knew exactly what was coming.  He didn't know what that key had been - based on the presence of Perceptor and Wheeljack, complete with data tablets and unimpressed frowns, he could infer that he was the subject of some kind of experiment, but what did it matter? 

_I deserve it_. 

His panels hissed open before Sentinel even had the chance to issue the command.

"Well, well.  Excited are we?  Did you give it up that easy for Shockwave too, you little slut?"

The vicious words struck a chord with Blurr.  He wanted to protest, to fight for what little sanctity that relationship had held for him.  But he didn't dare.  Sentinel was right.  If he'd been a loyal bot, or even a smart bot, he wouldn't have pursued his superior officer, would have turned down that first offer to interface, would have run screaming when Shockwave first revealed his true face.  Instead, he'd spread his legs and said 'come on in.' 

_I deserve this._

And yet, even as his spark was overcome with guilt, he couldn't shake the feeling that he didn't t want Sentinel there, above him, and he _certainly_ didn't want Sentinel inside of him.  He shuttered his optics.

_Only Shockwave can touch me._

Sentinel showed enough mercy to allow Blurr that one small respite.  Instead, he began running eager hands over Blurr's frame. They were not so big as Shockwave's, and certainly not so clawed, but if he tried hard enough, he could pretend.  It was Shockwave that touched Blurr, perhaps not-so expertly as was usual, but Blurr moaned the same regardless.  Gradually, those great claws, that could easily crush the life out of Blurr should their owner so desire, turned his attention lower and lower, from the primary energon lines at the base of his neck, over his windshield, scratched a scar through the Elite Guard sigil that still so proudly painted his chest, and continued on downward.  They seemed to take a particular interest in Blurr's soft belly, pressing down on it, dancing across the line where black met blue, and tenderly stroking the seams beneath his hip plating, as if it were the most important thing in the world.

But when the fat finger entered his already lubricant-slick valve and began feeling its way around, the illusion was shattered.  Pretend as he might, all he could see was Sentinel, invading a place where he did not belong.  Blurr flinched away, eliciting wicked laughter from the Magnus.

"Primus, look at you.  There's so much space in here, what in the Pit did you do to yourself?!  Are you even going to feel anything?"

The cruel words struck a chord deep within.  Blurr had always loved the way Shockwave had stretched his body beyond its limits, how very full he felt with that massive spike buried deep inside him.  Now, however, hearing from another how his body had been changed because of it, he felt nothing but a deep sense of shame.

And yet, disgusted as he was - with his own moral failings, and with the fingers that were not Shockwave's dancing clumsily across his internal nodes, Blurr still found it in himself to feel charge building up deep inside.  His vents flared to life, and his body twitched of its own accord, as Sentinel found a particularly sensitive node.

"Well what do you know?  Looks like you got _some_ feeling in you after all!"

"Sir, please!" Blurr cried out, trying with all his might to will that the Magnus was Shockwave.  But there was no fixing what was already broken, and no amount of imagination could turn those unwanted fingers back into claws.

"Please, nothing," Sentinel snapped.  "You lost the rights to your dignity when you betrayed your people to the Decepticons.  I don't have to do a damn thing for you.  Consider this," he thrust his fingers upwards, activating three nodes at once; Blurr writhed, throwing his head back. "A privilege.  You don't deserve the pleasure."

Another sharp thrust, and Blurr's whole body went rigid, taken by a brief overload.  But even in the throes of pleasure, he knew that there was something wrong.  Blurr had experienced more than his share of overloads in his lifetime.  But now, it felt as if all of that built-up energy that should have been released when he reached his peak, was instead trapped, painfully resting just inside his over-fill tank.  He whimpered softly.

"What was that?!"  Sentinel said in baffled wonder.  He removed his hand, wiping the excess lubricants on Blurr's stomach.  "So soon?  No wonder you had to switch sides for a frag!  Who'd want to touch _you?_ "  He paused for a long moment, still poised over Blurr's prone form.  Eventually, when he continued to hesitate, curiosity got the better of him, and Blurr onlined his optics.

Sentinel was staring at Perceptor, face a twisted expression of anger and confusion.  Had Blurr ruined their experiment?

"I had not counted on this, but it would make sense that his glitch affects other functions as well as running and speaking.  It seems likely that you will coax another overload from him, should you continue."

Sentinel growled in response.  "Yeah, but I gotta get off too, don't I?  Is that gonna screw everything up?"

"Not necessarily," Perceptor said, checking his data pad.  "So long as there is charge from both participants, it should not be impacted negatively by multiple overloads."

"It better not be," Sentinel snapped, before turning his attention back to Blurr, looking him straight in the eye.  "Now _there_ are my pretty optics."  Blurr hurried to offline them once again, much to Sentinel's amusement.  He let loose a cruel laugh.  "Hide from the truth as much as you like; we're not done yet!"

The mech shifted above him, repositioning himself, and the hiss of a spike pressurizing reached Blurr's audials.  He could feel it - the wrong size, the wrong shape, the wrong _spike_ \- large for an Autobot but still far too small, and slightly slick with a trickle of transfluid, resting hotly against the entrance to his valve.

"Hope the traitor in you isn't contatious," said the Magnus, before thrusting in.

Once more, any illusions Blurr tried to hold that this was Shockwave,  were quickly eradicated.  Shockwave was a Decepticon, and Blurr an Autobot, and a rather slim one at that.  The two of them had barely been compatible even after much work.  Stretched as his valve was, Blurr had still found it necessary to partially transform his hips in order to get enough breadth for that massive spike to sink in, and even so, Shockwave had never been able to fully-seat himself.   Sentinel, on the other hand, was a perfect fit, in the worst possible way.  His spike was able to comfortably brush against the nodes of Blurr's mutilated valve, abused calipers barely had to adjust to take him in, and for the first time in a long while, Blurr didn't feel close to bursting.  It was perhaps a healthier method of interfacing, but each affirmation that their bodies were meant to fit together, was another cruel reminder that this wasn't - _couldn't_ have been Shockwave.

"This is weird," Sentinel grumbled between thrusts, to the room rather than Blurr.

"What is?" came Perceptor's mechanical voice.

"His valve is buzzing.  Is that a thing that they do now?"  Somehow, whether from the discomfort of his previous overload, the already building charge of his next, the numbness of anything much lower than his array, or the broken state of his own mind, Blurr hadn't noticed the sensation.   But indeed, once made aware of it, there _did,_ in fact,seem to be a bit of a pulse emanating from his over-fill tank.  As weird as it sounded, Blurr was willing to bet that the unusual circumstances of his previous overload were to blame.  And while Sentinel didn't seem sure as to whether he liked the sensation or not (though based on his moaning, he was probably leaning towards 'yes,'), Blurr had no such qualm.  Another thrust from Sentinel against his ceiling node had Blurr twitching in a second overload.  Once again, the charge that should have been released, stored itself within his chamber instead.

Whatever was going on with his charge, it seemed to be behaving in an inverse of the desired effect.  The excess energy, trapped so close to his own valve served to highlight each pleasurable sensation experienced, every increasingly-hesitant thrust, every shaking brush against a sensitive node cluster, sending his tiny body into overload after overload after overload, each one spurring on the next, until he was an aching mess, and then he'd overload again.  Sparks danced across the surface of his plating from the excess charge, and lubricants trickled from his optics and mouth, from pleasure, pain, and exhaustion.  He wanted this to be over.

Which was a shame, because the more charge he stored within his body, the less enjoyment Sentinel seemed to get from the experience. 

"This is too much, Perceptor!  I can't get in deep like this."

"You have to," the scientist bounced back, deadpan.

From beside him, Wheeljack groaned.  "Get your spike out of him.  Grind on him, jerk yourself off, I don't care!  Whatever it takes to get close.  Just make sure you finish inside of him."  To hear Wheeljack's voice making such commands was as surreal as it was painful.  They'd never been friends, but he'd shared one or two conversations with the guy - enough to know that he was generally amiable and lighthearted.  It was amazing, yet unsurprising how much cruelty was hiding behind those friendly jokes, the smiles and laughter, just waiting to be unleashed on the right target.

"You dare talk to me that way?!" Sentinel snarled, but obeyed nonetheless.  Blurr could do little but lie there, broken, exhausted, as he was scooped up in the Magnus's arms.  A distant clank hit his ears as the thin metal of his twisted leg, with nothing to support it, gave way, allowing the newly-severed limb to fall uselessly to the ground.  All Blurr felt was a profound numbness, and the deep rumble of Sentinel's cruel laughter, which vibrated through the entirety of both frames.

One strong hand cupped his aft, the other the curve of his back, and he was pulled uncomfortably close against Sentinel's body, trapping the thick spike, slick with his own lubricants between them.   He held Blurr fast in place as he thrust up and down against soft mesh, and despite himself, Blurr arched into the motion, already verging on yet another overload.  He was dizzy, head spinning and interface array aching from the drain on his systems, even his glitched spark couldn't keep up with the drain in energy.  He felt sick, debased, ashamed, and more the traitor than ever, not for betraying his countrymen, who had so easily turned on him in retaliation, but for betraying the memory of Shockwave, for allowing himself to be defiled by the enemy, and for, on some twisted level, enjoying it.   

With a low groan, Sentinel lifted Blurr's light body, and with all of the clumsy haste he could muster, seated him fully on his throbbing spike.  The fierce vibrations within transformed his groan into an all-out roar, and he came violently, easily filling Blurr's smaller valve with his hot transfluid.  The sensation of being so stuffed, of the thick fluids spilling into his already abused over-fill tank was enough to throw Blurr into one final overload. 

He cried out and threw his head back, optics shimmering back online at the sensation of Sentinel's sharp teeth digging into his exposed throat.  Upside down, he could see the others, Elite Guardsmechs and Autotroopers, and Perceptor and Wheeljack, all watching him with looks of horror, looks of disgust.  As his own blank eyes took in the hatred that was focused on him - as Sentinel released his throat and pulled back his rapidly-retracting and slightly-scorched spike, allowing Blurr's limp body to fall unceremoniously to the ground, he began, for the first time since Shockwave's death to feel the gleam of an emotion that wasn't shame or sorrow. 

Blurr was angry, overflowing with a white-hot rage, and a need for vindication.  He may have been a traitor, but these mechs were no better, claiming the moral high ground against him and against the Decepticons, all while gleefully participating in the torture and dehumanization of their own fellow Cybertronian, when presented with the convenient excuse.    

Blurr didn't know how long he had left, and he didn't know how long it would take, but he did know that somehow he would find a way to punish those who had so wronged him.

 


	3. (Re)Birth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blurr is horrified to find out exactly what Sentinel and Perceptor have planned for him, but he still intends to fight back with everything he has.

Though fueled by anger, there was little Blurr could do to change his current predicament.   He was a still a prisoner, confined to a maximum security cell in Trypticon prison, and that was unlikely to change any time soon.  However, everything was not the same as it had been.

Ever since his encounter with Sentinel, Blurr's treatment had undergone a suspicion reversal.  Perceptor and Wheeljack had been kind enough to give him his legs back, even if they _had_  imbedded a powerful inhibitor deep within the circuitry of each.  He could no longer run, but it was far more than he had been expecting.  Even more eerie, however, was the daily dosage of racer-grade energon left in his cell, which had certainly become a bit toastier than he remembered.  If Blurr didn't know any better, he'd say he was being pampered, which really held a sense of foreboding to it.  Just what had they done to him in Sentinel's office?

For now, he took the energon without complaint.  Empty tanks were more persuasive than the unknown threat looming over his head.  Besides, energon came in cubes, and cubes were delivered by people.  All he needed was one careless attendant, and he could raise hell.

And soon enough, that day came. 

The Minicon's name was High Wire, and he was a particularly nasty little glitch, recently hired and overcompensating for his inexperience with undue cruelty.  Blurr took the cube of energon offered to him with shaking hands, in an effort to appear pitiful.  And then, when High Wire's guard was down, he bashed the heavy cube over the little mech's head, shattering it in the process.

The guard dropped to the ground, and Blurr fell upon him, prying open his medical panel, and jacking in with his own cables, in a slapdash effort at hacking Trypticon's security keys from the little mech.  He was outside his area of specialty, but Blurr worked fast, and within kliks, he had what he sought.  He quickly stumbled over the tiny body and towards the door, inputting the passcode and watching it slide open.

Only to be greeted by more armed guards.

He didn't know how they'd found out, and he didn't have the luxury to care.  This was his only chance at escape, and he was not going to blow it.  He couldn't go around them, but he also couldn't help but notice, that not one of the guards had raised a weapon against him.  Perhaps he could go through.

Even with his legs inhibited, he was fast for a normal mech.  He charged right into the mass of Minicons, and found, to his pleasure, that they moved aside, as if afraid to risk hurting him.  The implications were a little unnerving, but he could deal with that later.  For now, he would continue his game of Minicon chicken, charging the guards and their flimsy attempts at corralling him through blockades and brandished spears.  They always backed down when he got too close.  This escape attempt was going much more smoothly than he'd anticipated.

That was, until he reached the threshold of the Great Corridor, the last barrier between him and the bridge leading away from this place.  That was when a massive hand grasped the back of his neck and hoisted him from the ground, as though he were weightless.

"Well, look at you.  This is what we get – leaving Minicons to do a mech's job."  Sentinel Prime. 

 _Oh no._  

Blurr struggled wildly in his grasp, kicking and flailing.  With any luck, Sentinel would be just as afraid of hurting him as the Minicons had been.

It was too much to hope.

Sentinel's arm moved across Blurr's face at top speed, leaving him reeling, dizzy, hurting.  He cried out in pain, only to find Sentinel striking him again.  The next thing he knew, he was being shoved into a nearby wall, feet dangling off the floor, Sentinel's face close enough that he could make out the fine grain in his protoform.  He supposed he should be happy that he hadn't been _slammed_ into the wall.

"Did you really think we'd let you just – _waltz_ on out of here?"

"I didn't see anyone trying to stop me," Blurr choked, trying to pry that cold, unmoving hand from his throat.  It was all he could do to hang on to his mind, as every moment of looking into Sentinel's face brought the memories racing in – the pain, the terror, lying on the floor, covered in a sticky mess of fluids, his legs mangled – dirty, used, a traitor both to the Autobots and to his dead lover.  Black clouds were fast disrupting his field of sight, pixellating his vision, dragging stolen patches of visual data into their darkness.  It only served to make him more terrified, but if he fought back, Sentinel would retaliate tenfold.  Blurr shuddered at the thought.  He couldn't lose his legs – not again.

"They're under orders not to harm you.  Stupid Minicons can't be trusted to handle anything more specific than that.  But I don't have that issue.  I know what's safe to do, and what's not."

Blurr's tanks roiled, without warning, and as best as he could tell, without reason.  He jerked forward, nausea throwing off what little balance he'd managed to gain.  What had Sentinel done to him?  What was going on?

Sentinel promptly shoved him back into the wall.  "Ugh, don't purge on me.  Come on, back to your cell with you."

He was surprisingly gentle as he carried Blurr away.  Sure, his fingers dug into Blurr's collar hard enough to dent the metal, and sure, being carried around by the scruff like a disgraced Cybercat was far from dignified, but it could have been much, much worse.  Blurr had expected Sentinel to rip off his limbs, to drive him into the ground, throw him into walls hard enough to cave his plating.  He'd felt confident when the Minicons had shown reluctance to hurt him.  With Sentinel, it was different.  When Sentinel expressed restraint, Blurr began to truly fear.

His tanks gave another lurch.

That wasn't right either.  Sentinel hadn't gone anywhere near Blurr's tanks, and he'd been eating so well up to this point . . . 

The answer was right there.  He didn't know _what_ exactly it was, but Sentinel clearly had some investment in Blurr's body.  He recalled the reverential way the mech had rubbed his belly in their last encounter.  He was part of a sick experiment, and learning the details behind it was a terrifying prospect.

"What's happening to me?" he demanded, struggling in Sentinel's grip.  "What did you do to me?  What's going on?!"  Sentinel allowed him to go on like that all the way back to his cell, where Blurr was dropped unceremoniously to the floor.  He was able to catch himself, and was on Sentinel in an instant, kicking at his knees, clawing at his face, whatever he could think to do.  At best, he could hurt the mech and make his escape.  At worst – what?  Sentinel wouldn't hurt him.  Not severely.  He was certain now.

And indeed, it hadn't hurt when he was ultimately slammed against the far wall of the cell by six tons of burly arms and broad chest, or at least when compared to their previous encounter.  By its own merits, the brutality of the assault was quite unexpected.  He gave out a pained shriek as his armor buckled and caved in, his mind flashing white and his audials ringing. 

His senses returned just in time to see Sentinel's panicked face.  "Oh frag, oh frag!  You idiot!  Look what you've made me do!  You've ruined everything!  I swear, if you've ruined everything – I need Perceptor."

"Wha -?" Blurr managed to groan out, head lolling weakly to the side.

"You idiot!" Sentinel snapped once more, shaking Blurr enough to further addle his spinning processor, before releasing him.  Blurr slid slowly to the floor.  His tanks lurched again, and this time he couldn't hold back.  He lunged forward, purging on the icy panels of his cell floor.

A heavy foot came down on the back of his neck, forcing him to the ground, his face pressed into his own mess.  It was disgusting, horrific, and Blurr's memories kicked in – it was happening again – he would lose his legs, be torn apart, violated by their pathetic excuse for a leader.  He growled weakly, trying his hardest to force himself up, but Sentinel was too heavy, and Blurr's battered body, too weak.

"You wanna know?  Fine!  I'll tell you."  Sentinel's foot let up, thankfully, and Blurr shoved himself away from the rancid mess as fast as he could, its smell still clogging his olfactory sensors.  But Sentinel wasn't don't tormenting him yet. 

The mech stepped around Blurr and sank to his knees, wrapping his arms around Blurr's waist and pulling him flush to his broad chest.  Blurr froze.  It was happening again.  It was happening again.  It was happening again.  His whole body set off in a series of jerky twitches, and Sentinel laughed, leaning close to Blurr's audial.

"What a sorry sight you are.  Who'd have thought one of our best agents would be reduced to a shivering mess so easily?"

"Stop, stop, stop!  Let go of me," Blurr cried out, unable to fight back.

"Why?  You asked for this," was the heartless reply.

"No no no no no no no no no no no no no . . ."

Sentinel continued speaking over Blurr's mindless protestations.  "You want to know what's happening to you?  What Perceptor did?   What _I_ did?  I'll tell you.  It's only fair, right?"

"Stop stop stop stop stop, please, let go of me."

"You're a useless heap of slag, Blurr, fit only for execution.  You betrayed the Autobots.  How many of your own people are dead because of you?"

Blurr's vocaliser hitched, putting an end to his frantic babbling.  Sentinel was right.  He'd earned this.  _He'd earned this._   He stopped struggling.

"But your skills are too useful to waste.  That's why Perceptor and Wheeljack came up with a plan to replicate them.  In the most disgusting, _organic_ way possible."

"What?" Blurr's voice was distant, vacant, half-dead.

"We've decided to _breed_ you Blurr.  Ugh, isn't that just a disgusting word?  'Breed?'"  His grip on Blurr grew tighter, transmitting his feelings on the subject.  "Right now, there are a bunch of new sparks growing right about . . . here."  He squeezed a handful of Blurr's belly to indicate.  It hurt far more than it should have, as if there was a fire beneath the surface resisting being disrupted so.  Blurr whimpered softly.

"You like that?  Of course you would, you little masochist.  But there you have it.  A few months time, and they'll be viable.  And we will harvest them, and place them into fresh protoforms.  And then, if they work properly, we can be done with you.

"In the meantime, we gotta keep you comfortable.  Perceptor says that the sparks will best take on the coding of the 'mother,' or whatever he called it, if you are in as close to your normal state as possible.  That means all body parts intact, no disabled functions, no drugs, awake and well-fed.  The dampeners in your legs might even be too much of a change.  But we'll see.  If the test batch doesn't work, well, we can just try again."

And then he released Blurr, roughly shoving him back to the ground one more time, before striding out of the cell, and locking the door behind him, taking Blurr's chance for escape with him.

~~~

Just because he was denied escape didn't mean he had to play nice.  The moment that Blurr learned exactly what had been done to him also marked the moment where everything changed one more time.  Sentinel Magnus had defiled him twice over, and Perceptor and Wheeljack too.  He was no longer Cybertronian anymore, but some kind of freak.  Death would have been kinder.

But Blurr had been cursed with an outlier's spark.  That which blessed him with speed and power had likewise doomed him to this disaster of a life – playing the host to nine parasites, that fed off his spark and made him weak.

They may have been sparks, life, and moreover a part of himself, and yet, Blurr knew without a doubt that he could not allow them to be born.    And to that end, he would do whatever it took.

Unfortunately, from his position trapped within Trypticon, the only weapon Blurr had to use against himself, was himself.  He flung his body into walls, fast as he could, until his plating caved and his headlights cracked.  And then, once exhaustion gave way, he began clawing at his protoform, digging in with his blunt fingers and twisting and pulling, gritting his dentae through the pain.  Eventually the guards took away his freedom of movement, chaining his legs to the ground, his arms and neck to the wall.  And Perceptor and Wheeljack were brought in in shifts, to make sure he hadn't done any irreparable damage.  Not a scratch.

Losing his freedom of movement had been a heavy blow to a speedster like Blurr.  He could already feel his plating crawling with the need to run, to get up and _go_.  Adding the burn of the growing sparks from within his belly only intensified the itch, the madness.  He couldn't hold still, his body was shaking all the time; he couldn't think, he couldn't see straight – he had to get them out!  He had to kill them!

At that point, he stopped eating.  It was the last thing he could do to protest.

But like everything, it had been in vain.  This time, Perceptor came in with two guards and a rather horrific contraption – made of needles and tubes, connected to a tank of energon, which ultimately found itself injected into his protoform, transplanting fuel directly to his lines, nourishing the parasites anew.  Blurr wanted to die.

Blurr wanted Shockwave.

He wanted Shockwave to duck into the room, leaving a trail of dead guards in his wake.  He wanted Shockwave to rip the door from Blurr's cell with his powerful claws, to scoop up Blurr's body, tiny in comparison, to bring him close, hold him near his spark, safe and warm, just the two of them.  The image of that great Decepticon spark, brilliant white with flecks of red, filled his mind, brought with it a sense of calm.  He could almost feel the vibrations of it against him.

But then those claws closed around him, morphing into thick arms, squeezing him close, crushing the life out of him.  He was back on the floor, his legs twisted off, helpless to fight as Sentinel drove into him again and again and again.

His optics shot back on, sight dispelling the powerful imagery.  He was back in his cell, restrained, aching, and miserable.  He wanted to die.  He wanted to escape.  He wanted these _things_ growing inside of his body to disappear.  He wanted to run and smile and be free and safe and happy.

He wanted Shockwave.

~~~

The torturous days dragged by, maddening hours of physical discomfort and the itch of immobility were separated only by the daily arrival of Perceptor's team, scanning him, measuring his gradually expanding belly, and testing his vitals, before injecting those despised tubes into his body and pumping energon directly into his fuel tanks.  Life was Hell.  Only hate kept Blurr going, and even that could only get him so far.

Worse yet, every day that passed left the sparks bigger, stronger, brighter.  He could feel them within him, pressing against the walls of his makeshift gestation tank, their life energy burning him with every contact.  Such energy had never been intended to occupy the flimsy material of a tank made to store and convert excess transfluid to useable energy.  But worse than the burn, was the stretching. 

Protoform was more flexible than plating, but it likewise had never been meant for such distension.  His body resisted the push of the sparks, as they clamored for more and more space, and Blurr felt every tear, every dent, in constant and excruciating detail.  He grew bigger every day, and the bigger he got, the more intense his pain became.  Eventually, even hate wasn't enough to save him.

Perceptor and Wheeljack came in one day to find him moaning, sobbing, solvents leaking from his eyes and mouth, his body doubled in on itself as best he could manage around his restraints.  His world was on fire – for twelve cycles now (according to his chronometer), he had been unable to focus on anything beyond the pain, the helplessness, and the slow passage of time.  He barely even recognized that there were others in the room with him.  And when they injected him with more energon, they found the fuel immediately thrown back up.

Seven kliks passed, and then there were hands on him, feeling his tender stomach, pressing and prodding and inciting screams from his raw vocaliser.  Words were exchanged between what may as well have been strangers, one voice heated, the other cold and neutral.  And then, relief. 

One of the voices, the heated voice, Wheeljack, had put an inhibitor claw around his neck, dulling the pain, and filling his body with icy numbness.  It was a welcome change, as was the heaviness behind his optics, urging recharge.  How long had it been since he'd last slept?

"I wish to make my reservations known in regards to this decision.  The inhibitor claw may well have a detrimental effect on the sparks, including the potential of stunted growth or spark failure."

"Ah, shut your heartless trap.  This bot may be traitorous scum, but nobody deserves to live like this," Wheeljack growled, busying his hands with a diagnostic prod.  "Besides, he can't exactly carry these sparks if he's dead, now can he?  I'm starting to think this whole thing was a bad idea.  You and your science projects." He threw his hands in the air, before returning his attention to Blurr's body, pressing and poking and making a nuisance of himself.

"How's this feel?  Better?"  The words were so unexpected, Blurr failed to register them the first time.  There was no way actual compassion was being directed at _him_!  But he wasn't foolish enough to think that the mech who had egged on the assault on Blurr's bodily autonomy had turned over a new leaf.  He gave a weak grunt in confirmation, refusing to waste any words on Wheeljack.

"We should minimize his exposure to stasis inflicting supplements," Perceptor insisted.  "I shall perform a few tests to determine the maximum duration the subject can remain unassisted before an adverse effect is felt on his status.  Is this agreeable?"

Wheeljack answered with a noncommittal grunt.  "No better than the Decepticons, I swear.  Can't wait to wash my hands of this sordid affair.  War's at its end.  What do we need a bunch of super soldiers for anyway?  Ain't that how the Decepticons rose up in the first place?"

Perceptor refused to answer Wheeljack's grumblings, instead keeping his focus on the machine in his hands.  Blurr's optics were too bleary to make it out in detail, but its shrill beeping was driving him nuts.  Two kliks.  _Beep._   Two kliks.  _Beep._   The hellish noise followed him into a deep and restless recharge.  But at least he didn't have to deal with the pain while he was asleep.

~~~

The next time Perceptor came back, Wheeljack was not with him.  Or perhaps it wasn't the next time.  Blurr's world these days had been reduced to alternating bursts of mind-numbing agony  and inhibitor-induced recharge.  He had no idea how much time had passed, or who had come to see him in the meanwhile.

What he did know, was that his belly felt close to bursting, the protoform stretched so far beyond its limits, that it grew white in the most stressed areas, and even the flexible blue plating that protected his waist had begun to warp as well.  His body was on fire – he couldn't think, and he couldn't move, which was a shame, because for the first time in recent memory, his restraints had been removed.  He could have been freed, if only he had the focus.

Instead, he found his body hoisted into strong arms, too thick, too powerful to be Perceptor's.

"Ugh, this is disgusting.  How did I let you talk me into something so _unnatural._   Look at him – a frame's not supposed to _move_ like that.  I think I can see 'em pulsing."  Even through the fog of agony, Blurr recognized the voice.  Sentinel was the one who held him, trying his hardest to insult and belittle even now.  Blurr wanted to struggle.  He couldn't.

They were moving.  Perhaps he'd been put on a stretcher at some point?  Sentinel's arms were no longer on him – but the walls were passing by in a blur.  Maybe he was hallucinating?

But sure enough, the gloomy grey blur of Trypticon's walls soon brightened, transforming into a sterile white infirmary.  Blurr groaned weakly, two seconds away from purging whatever was in his tanks at the moment.  When was the last time he'd been fed?

Distantly, a voice reached his audials, unfeeling as the room they resided in.  "We should take care.  It would seem that we miscalculated in the original test.  The subject has developed a spark for each overload undergone during the copulation process.  I had not expected his body to be forced to bear so much stress.  It is a fascinating experiment, but it would seem that some fine-tuning will be required if we wish to repeat it in the future.  To that end, I would prefer that we keep the subject alive, in the event the initial batch is non-viable.

"Ugh, who cares if he lives or dies?" Sentinel groaned.  "These newsparks are going to be strong and fast, right?  That's all that I care about."

"Theoretically, they will inherit traits from both parents.  However, as the process is still in the experimental stages, it is difficult to ascertain what effect various extenuating factors have had on the subject and his offspring.  We will not know until we combine the new sparks with their protoform shells."

"Okay.  So you're telling me we've wasted all this time and energy on some twisted experiment that might not even come out as planned?"

"It is the nature of an experiment."

Sentinel groaned, moving back to Blurr's bedside, slamming his hands onto the table, sending a shiver through Blurr's heavily-exerted frame.  "So, how are we gonna get these sparks outta him anyway?"

Another heavy twinge struck Blurr's belly, and he could hold back no longer.  He rolled to the side, doubling over as best he could, and purged on the slab beside him, leaving a trail of grey drool down his chin.  He couldn't be bothered to care.  He just wanted the pain to stop. 

_It hurts.  It hurts.  IT HURTS!!_

"Presumably, they will exit the host in the same way they entered."

Another twinge sent his body twitching ramrod straight, back arching and head throwing back.  Something was moving inside of him, within his tanks, pushing the burning sparks painfully into his outer walls as it forced itself down, down, down.  On instinct, Blurr slammed his thighs together, his calves kicking out, fighting off a threat that wasn't there.

"That is counterproductive," Perceptor said, lifeless as always.  "Sentinel Magnus, please pull his legs apart and secure them in place.  The spark will not pass otherwise."

Sentinel grumbled but did as he was told, wrapping his hands around Blurr's calves and prying them apart, holding on firmly.  "Better open up, Blurr.  That thing's comin' outta you one way or another."

"No no no no no no no no no no no!" Blurr shrieked, struggling and writhing in Sentinel's grasp, until his chest and shoulders arched off the slab.  "Let me go!  Please no!  Make it stop, make it stop!  I can't stand this!"

"Ugh, Perceptor.  Can't we do something about this?"

Perceptor must have agreed, for two pairs of hands wrapped around Blurr's arms, holding him down.

"The subject's valve cover still remains closed," Perceptor observed, having moved in for a better look.  "This is most unfortunate."

Another groan from Sentinel.  "C'mon Blurr.  Open up, or I'll rip it off.  You're just gonna make it worse if you stay closed."

Blurr barely heard the words, he barely comprehended them – his frame was overheating, his optics blurring, his world focused almost solely on the movement within him, but somehow the command made its way through, and somehow, Blurr found enough presence of mind to follow.  If he could just get these things out of him, maybe all of the pain would go away.

The first spark was agony, forcing its way from his gestation tank and down his valve, leaving a trail of burnt suffering in its wake.  He screamed until his vocaliser short-circuited as it passed the mesh lips of his valve, emerging into the sterile light of the room.  Blurr couldn't see it from where he lay, and he didn't want to.  What he did see was Perceptor move in and scoop something up in his hands, something that was surely too small to be a legitimate spark, before turning away, and walking towards a wall lined in blank protoforms.

Blurr's body jerked, and another of the sparks began to shift inside of him.  _No no no_.

It happened seven more times – seven more sparks passed through Blurr's body, burning his valve until there was little left of it. If Perceptor and Sentinel wanted to try this again, they were going to have to find somewhere else to keep these damn things.

Primus, this was going to happen again.  Perceptor wanted to run more tests.  Sentinel wanted to build an army.  This would be his life, playing host to however many sparks they wanted to fill him up with, left to rot in a world of suffering until his own spark finally gave out.  The thought was horrifying.  But maybe . . .

Maybe he could help the process along.

He was already weak, barely hanging on to consciousness, even as the sparks that emerged from within him grew progressively smaller and smaller.  There was one spark left – one more chance to resist, to fight for his freedom from this hellish existence, to punish those who had put him into this situation.

He resisted.  His insides were in tatters, his mind was all but gone, he had no energy, but still, he resisted, trying his hardest to hold onto that last spark, to keep it inside of him, as though it were his own.  The spark fought back, forcing itself towards freedom, turning his world to white hot agony as it pushed and pushed, and still he resisted, until sheer willpower was not enough; he clenched his knees, commanded his valve cover to close.

"What the frag is this little slagheap doing?" Sentinel snapped, forcing Blurr's legs apart again with ease.  "Are you _trying_ to get yourself killed?!"

Blurr's answer was replaced by a sharp shriek, as the spark reached his panel, hot enough to melt the metal, and stab at an already-tender wound.

"Subject's spark rate has risen to 336 ppm.  Internal temperature is 500 degrees and rising.  Fans have burnt out.  I recommend we get some cool air on his spark soon, or he will suffer irreparable damages."

"Primus, Blurr!  Stop fighting it!  That thing's coming out one way or another."  Sentinel was reaching for him now, a pair of orderlies holding Blurr's legs in his place.  His hands were against Blurr's valve, and drained as he was, Blurr somehow found the energy to struggle, to scream.  Sentinel touching him was wrong – treachery, a violation – he couldn't even remember why.

"Stop it, you idiot!  You're gonna get yourself killed!"  Sentinel was prying at the molten metal, hissing as it burned his hands.  "Holy fuck, you're hot."

Perceptor's robotic voice sounded somewhere in the distance, presumably protesting, but Blurr could not make out the words.

He couldn't feel Sentinel anymore, his sensors had finally given up, leaving him blissfully numb.  But he could hear the sickening shriek of metal as his valve cover was ripped away, could see the spray of vivid pink energon as his body was torn apart, painting his stomach, still partially distended from its recent load, in a gory display. 

Despite the spark's insistence on escaping before, Sentinel had to reach in and pry it the last few inches into the open air; Blurr scarcely noticed.  He no longer had the strength to struggle.

The spark was a stunted little thing – it was absurd to think that something so small had caused him such pain.  But more than tiny, its light was dim, an unhealthy grey, and it flickered weakly in Sentinel's hands.  Then again, perhaps the spark merely looked grey.  The rest of the world certainly did.  Blurr would have thought Sentinel and Perceptor dead, were they not moving around.

Sentinel was rushing the little spark to the wall of Protoforms, gesticulating wildly all the while.  Perceptor, meanwhile, only shook his head.

"What do you mean none of them are viable?!"

"I have not yet found the cause.  We will have to run more tests before we try . . ."  Whatever else he said was lost.

Blurr no longer had to hear it.  He was no longer held fast to the table, a prisoner in his own body, the subject of some sick experiment, a traitor to all he'd ever cared for.  He felt a presence behind him, big and warm and comforting – felt claws nearly as big as he was tap gently at his shoulder.

"It has been far too long, my Blurr."

Blurr turned around, more slowly than he'd ever thought possible.  He was in no rush; he had all of eternity to gaze into the gleaming red optic of Shockwave, brighter than ever before, overflowing with life and love.  He smiled, peaceful and genuinely happy, and reached out, wrapping a small hand around the claw that touched him.

"I've missed you," he said.

And hand-in-claw, they walked, away from the carnage of that cold, sterile medbay in Trypticon Prison, and off into the light of eternal bliss, together at long last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup. That was definitely a thing I just wrote. Well then.


End file.
